Gordo’s office sat behind the tribal utilities building, a squat cinderblock structure that always smelled faintly of bleach and wet concrete. He’d converted one of the storage rooms into a makeshift lab years ago — microscopes, test kits, sample racks, and a whiteboard covered in numbers only he understood.
When I walked in, he hunched over the counter and squinted at a strip of test paper as if it had offended him.
He didn’t look up. “You’re early.”
“You called.”
“I said for you to come by when you could," Gordo stated.
“And I could now.”
He sighed, set the test strip down, and rubbed his eyes. “You will not like this.”
I stepped closer. “Show me.”
He pointed to two vials on the counter — yesterday’s sample and today’s. Both looked clear, but the labels told a different story.
“Toluene levels?” I asked.
“Higher,” he said. “Not by a lot. But enough.”
“How much is enough?”
“Enough that I don’t like it.”
Gordo wasn’t an alarmist. If anything, he was the opposite: steady, methodical, slow to jump to conclusions. So when he said he didn’t like something, it meant the ground was shifting under our feet.
I leaned over the vials. “Could it be runoff from the county side?”
“Not unless someone’s dumping solvents upstream.” He shook his head. “And even then, the pattern doesn’t match. This looks… pushed.”
“Pushed?”
“Like something is moving through the water table instead of sitting on top of it.”
My stomach tightened. “From the injection wells.”
He didn’t answer.
We sat at his cluttered desk, the hum of the mini‑fridge filling the silence.
“I need more samples,” he said finally. “Different points along the spring. And deeper pulls if I can get them.”
“I can help.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” Gordo whispered.
“That’s not the point.”
He gave me a tired look. “Eliza, if this is what I think it is—”
“We don’t know what it is.”
“Yet.”
The word hung between us like a weight.
###
When I stepped outside, the wind had picked up, carrying dust across the lot. The sky was a washed‑out blue, the kind that made the coulee look sharper, harsher.
My radio crackled. “Eliza, do you copy?”
Samantha.
“Go ahead.”
“Milo’s auntie called. He’s home from school. Says he’s ‘okay,’ but she doesn’t sound convinced.”
“I’ll swing by.”
“Thank you.”
I drove toward the east side of the reservation, past the row of older houses with peeling paint and chain‑link fences. Kids played in a yard, kicking a half‑flat soccer ball. An elder sat on her porch, shelling peas into a bowl.
Life went on. Even when something was wrong. Especially then.
###
Milo’s auntie, Marlene, answered the door with a baby on her hip and a toddler clinging to her leg. She wore her hair in a messy bun, and dark circles were visible under her eyes.
“Officer Morningstar,” she said, shifting the baby. “Sorry about the mess.”
“It’s not a mess,” I said. “It’s a house with kids.”
She gave a tired laugh. “He’s in his room.”
I stepped inside. The twins were arguing over a toy truck. A pot simmered on the stove. The TV played a cartoon that no one was watching.
Milo’s room was small: a twin bed, a poster of a basketball player, a stack of game cartridges on the dresser. He lay under a blanket, pale but awake.
“Hey, bud,” I whispered.
He pushed himself up on his elbows. “I’m okay.”
“You don’t look okay.”
He shrugged. “I feel better than this morning.”
“Headache?”
“A little.”
“Stomach?”
“Not as bad.”
“Burning nose?”
He hesitated. “Sometimes.”
I sat on the edge of the bed. “Milo, I need you to tell me the truth. Did you smell anything weird before you got sick?”
He nodded. “Yeah. By the water.”
“Same smell as yesterday?”
“Yeah.”
“Did it happen before? Any other time you were out there?”
He thought for a moment. “Maybe last week? I don’t know. It was faint.”
My pulse tightened. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
He looked down at his hands. “I didn’t want to be the kid who complained.”
I exhaled slowly. “You’re not complaining. You’re helping.”
He didn’t look convinced.
###
Back in the living room, Marlene rocked the baby gently. “Is he okay?”
“He’s not in danger right now,” I said. “But I want you to monitor him. If he gets dizzy again, or if he throws up, call me.”
She nodded, biting her lip. “I’m trying, Eliza. I really am.”
“I know you are.”
She blinked hard, fighting tears. “His dad sends money, but he’s not here. And I’ve got the twins, and work, and—”
“You’re doing more than enough,” I said. “You’re doing everything.”
She looked away, embarrassed by the emotion. “Just… let nothing happen to him.”
“I won’t,” I said.
But the truth was heavier than the promise.
I couldn’t protect him from everything. I could only control what was happening on the reservation. What was happening in the county, at PMEP, or whatever was moving under the ground was not in my control.
###
On the drive back, I slowed as I reached the ridge. The PMEP site was visible in the distance — drills rising like skeletal towers, trucks moving along the access road, dust hanging in the air.
One mile. Exactly one mile. Close enough to touch the water. Close enough to touch the kids.
I pulled over and sat there, engine idling, watching the movement on the ridge.
They were too far to see me. Too far to hear me. Too far to answer me.
But not too far to hurt us.
I put the truck into gear.
Time to stop watching from a distance.
Time to ask questions they didn’t want to answer.